


reconcile

by epsiloneridani



Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Found Family, Gen, Halo: Blood Line, Reach, Spartan II - Freeform, halo bloodline, halo: bloodline, spartan program, still not overly happy with it but here you go i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-06 03:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15877149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epsiloneridani/pseuds/epsiloneridani
Summary: "First, we taught them to be silent. Then -- we taught them to be Spartans."Sometimes, body language and tension and tells aren’t enough. Sometimes, you need words. In the aftermath, Black Team talks.Margaret. Victor. Otto. Roma. Whatever happens, they’re still a family.cross-posted on tumblr





	reconcile

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: canon-typical language and violence

It’s not something they can forgive him for.

The cafeteria is quiet this late: the other members of the crew have long since retired to their quarters or reported to their posts for the graveyard shift. He has the place to himself, which is a really roundabout way of saying he’s  _alone_.

Victor drops his head into his hands and drags his fingers through his hair until his scalp aches.  _I forgive you_  she said,  _it’s all right_  they  _meant_  and it pulses, pulses, piercing. They can’t mean it; no Spartan could. Team. Loyalty. Trust. Fireteams are raised together, train together, survive together.

Fireteams are family.

And he betrayed them.

The door hisses open and he doesn’t move, doesn’t look up. His bench dips slightly, creaking under new weight.

“Hey, Vic.”

Otto. Who he put in danger. Otto. Who he almost killed. Victor’s throat tightens. His shoulders shudder, chest twists, and when Otto presses a careful hand to his back he shrugs it away with a half-choked heave.

He can’t breathe.

“ _Vic?_ ” There’s concern in his voice, an aching plea.  _What’s goin’ on?_  Damn it. Damn it. Doesn’t deserve it. Doesn’t deserve it. No one can forgive this. Otto graps his shoulders. “ _Victor_ , what’s wrong?”

Victor doesn’t lift his head. His breath is ragged. His heart is pounding. “Nothing,” he croaks. “Just--”

“What?”

“Get the hell away from me,” he whispers desperately.

Otto doesn’t move and the anxiety churning in Victor’s chest surges -- explodes.

“I said  _get the hell away from me!_ ” Victor roars, ripping away from the hold and scrambling for distance. Otto stares at him, holding his hands up, open, undefended.  _I’m not gonna hurt you._

More than he deserves. More than he could ever deserve. He wishes Otto’d just swing at him, even the score in some small way.

It’s not something they can forgive him for.

The door swishes open again, bathing him in a beam broken by two silhouettes. “Victor,” Magaret says quietly. “Easy. We’re here.”

He’s already hurt them all so much. No more.

The rage ripples away and he sags. Otto’s just in time to ease him to the floor, keeps an arm around him, and Victor doesn’t have the energy to push him off. He’s dimly aware of the others sliding down beside him, dimly aware that Margaret has taken his hand in her own, an anchor. Always their anchor.

“Breathe,” she orders. “And then tell us what’s wrong.”

It’s not something they can forgive him for.

“Nothing,” he forces, and it burns in his throat like bile. Roma snorts and shoves him.

“Try again, Vee,” she says.

They’re silent for a long moment.

“You can’t forgive me,” he explodes hoarsely, barely a whisper, barely words. “You  _can’t_ \--”

Margaret stiffens and her grip on his hand tightens. “Victor, I said I forgive you and I meant it,” she says, and though it’s soft it still sings like steel. “It’s in the past.”

But she lost her eye. But they could have lost their lives. “I--”

His voice cracks; he can’t finish. Otto squeezes his shoulders gently, Roma takes his other hand, and he fights to let her, fights to stay still and here where they surround him. Fireteam. Family. “I could have killed you,” he whispers, and he doesn’t address it because it’s to all of them and they  _know that_. How could they not? Unstable. Traitor. Betrayer. Broken.

Otto snorts --  _we already said it’s okay_. Except they didn’t. No one said anything.  And it’s not like they should have. This is not something you forgive; this is something you set on fire.

“Are we talking about the mission or are we talking about Reach?” Roma asks.

“Both,” Margaret says, tilting her head at him. There are tears streaking down his cheeks, scathing saltwater that Otto brushes away carefully. “We’re talking about both, aren’t we, Victor?”

He manages a muted nod.

“Victor, I forgive y--”

She stops suddenly, staring, and he wonders if this is where they take it back, send him away. “Victor,” Margaret says quietly, “we already know. You don’t have to say it.”

He never did. Never could. Was never brave enough. Victor shakes his head again. His throat’s so tight it aches.

“Vic.” Otto’s steady beside him, shaking him gently until he turns to meet his gaze. “Vic, if you need to say something,  _say it_.”

They’re silent, waiting, so much more patient than they should be, so much more patient than he deserves. Victor clears his throat and straightens his spine. “I told Mendez because I was  _afraid,_ ” he chokes. His chest clenches. Coward. Traitor. No one moves. “I thought -- you two, I thought I’d -- the team -- I thought --”

Margaret glances at Otto and then back. It’s in the past now for them, has been for years -- or so they said. Victor doesn’t care anymore; he was never jealous of the relationship, only the attachment. Afraid. Impulsive.  _Stupid._

“You thought we would start to value each other over you and Roma,” she says slowly and damn if that’s not a testament to how well they all read one another.

“Never,” Otto whispers. “Vic, we’d  _never_.”

Of course they wouldn’t have. They were young, not stupid. Not like him. Not like what he did.

“Vee,” Roma starts, uncharacteristically hesitant, “you haven’t been torturing yourself over this since--”

“You all could have  _died_ ,” Victor snarls. His voice dips an octave, exhausted. “You all could have died.”

Margaret brushes a thumb over his knuckles. “We didn’t,” she says simply.

He’s never had the courage to say it before. This is not something they can forgive him for -- but they deserve his words, for whatever they’re worth.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, a heaving gasp burdened by a lifetime of burning guilt. It explodes out of his chest like a bomb. “I -- I’m so  _sorry_. For  _everything_.”

Victor ducks his head and Otto lets him, holds him: a shelter, a shield. “You made a mistake,” he says raggedly, like there are tears in his eyes too, like this has been gnawing away at him since then. “That doesn’t mean you’re any less my  _brother_ , Vic.”

“But I--” His voice cracks, a broken whine. “I--”

“Doesn’t matter,” Margaret says. “You’re family, Victor, and we don’t leave each other behind.”

“It’s not something you  _can_  forgive,” he heaves. His chest burns, burns, aches. “You all could have--”

“Family,” she cuts in sharply, “means we can forgive anything. Don’t  _doubt that_.”

He can’t breathe. He can’t  _breathe_. “It’s okay,” Otto says and Victor manages a gasp that’s half breath, half sob. “‘s’okay. I’m sorry we didn’t say it sooner.”

“We forgive you,” Margaret says, strong, solid, safe, and Victor closes his eyes and lets them surround him, lets himself believe. Fireteam. Family.

“We forgive you.”

\--


End file.
